


Many Miles From Home

by orphan_account



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Coming of Age, Everyone Is Gay, Everyone is Trans, F/F, F/M, Gen, High School AU, Humanstuck, M/M, Multi, No One is White
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-15
Updated: 2017-03-25
Packaged: 2018-08-22 13:39:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8287663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Your name is Dave Strider.It is your freshman year of high school. Have fun with that.





	1. Dave's Backstory

**Author's Note:**

> Im back and more depressed than ever, sweaty. :))

-Dave's Backstory-

You knew something was off. Something about your body made people think of you differently. You didn't know what it was. It's just that you didn't feel like a... "girl." Or "pretty." Or... "feminine." You didn't really think much of it, considering Bro never really payed much attention to you, and you didn't have to deal with it a lot. 

And then you went to school. 

I mean, sure, you didn't look like the other boys (especially clothing-wise), and you had the same name as one of the other girls (Daphne). But teachers were supposed to be smart, and they were still calling you a girl. It didn't make any sense to you, but you figured they'd figure it out when soon enough. 

They didn't. 

In fifth grade, some... stuff started happening. Mostly the sudden lumps on your chest. 

At that point, you knew that people were never going to stop calling you a girl. You figured you were just a "tomboy" or something. You had moved on. Something still felt really off about not being a boy, but you decided to ignore it. 

Most of the other girls were jealous of your developing curves. You couldn't for the life of you understand why, you thought it was a hassle, always bumping into things with your hips and having to wear a bra.

They teased you for it. Called you "fat," which was another thing you didn't understand- why were different body types considered a bad thing? You thought plus-sized people were beautiful, to be honest. But it still hurt when they used the term for you, because they weren't saying it in a way that made you feel beautiful. It made you feel the opposite. 

Most of the boys disagreed. They did stupid things, brought you flowers at recess or tried to impress you in gym class. You appreciated it, really, but they were doing that THING that you hated. You know, separating you from them because of the body you were born with. 

There was a boy who always used to say something to you that made your stomach boil with anger. 

"Pretty for a black girl." 

It made you angry because, not only were you being separated from the boys, but now you were being separated from the people you were SUPPOSED to be like! All because of your skin color. 

Fuck that.

In sixth grade, you stumbled across an online article, about a girl who wasn't born with the body of a girl. It sparked some interest, so you clicked on it.

"I grew up knowing that I wasn't a 'boy.' It always felt very... off to me. I knew I was a girl." Something stirred in your gut as you continued to read the article. The woman went on to say that she started feeling really uncomfortable in her teen years when her body started developing. "I realized at this point that I had gender dysphoria. That's when I knew."

Realization hit you like a brick.

Whatever this "gender dysphoria" thing was seemed to describe how you felt exactly. 

You did a little more research, and inevitably stumbled across the term "transgender." With shaky hands, you moved your cursor to a video titled "Intro To Trans Education: Gender Dysphoria and Trans Terms."

Click.

"Bro, I think we should talk."

Weeks had passed since you discovered you were trans. Shit, months, even. You cried afterwards, because you finally found a place where you could be yourself. And you finally felt like you were ready to tell someone.

"Not now, Daphne, I'm busy." He was leaning over his computer, tapping away at the keys with some aggression. You huffed.

"But it's important. I really, REALLY need to talk to you."

He turned around, sighing and crossing his arms. 

"Okay, what is it? Girls at school teasing you again?" He looked annoyed. 

"No- well, yes, but-"

"Okay, I'll give their parents a call later. Is it that Tammy girl again?"

"What? No, Bro, just listen-"

"Well, who is it then? You need to tell me these things, Daphne-"

"Jesus Christ, Bro, you don't even listen when I'm trying to come out to you!" You were shaking more than you'd like to admit.

Bro visibly stiffened. You gulped. Was that too sudden? Was he going to punish you? Bro wasn't the best with handling serious situations, especially when it came to you. He made you sleep on the couch for a week once because you wet the bed while having a nightmare. God knows what he would do when he found out the kid he's been raising was trans.

"Are you sure?"

You nodded quickly, too scared to speak. He took a deep breath in and ran a hand through his hair.

"So you're a lesbian." Oh. Right, you didn't exactly say what you were coming out about. 

"N-no, not that. I'm not... I-I don't know what I... this is different!" He raised an eyebrow. You closed your eyes and swallowed thickly. "I'm... t-trans. I-I'm a trans b-boy."

You kind of thanked Bro for buying you shades. Since you were autistic, it was hard for you to make eye contact with people. But mostly you just didn't want Bro to see the tears welling up in your eyes. 

"'Trans.' That means you're, like, not actually a girl, right? You have a boy's mind?" Sure, why not. You nodded. He clicked his tongue. "Oh. Okay, then, I guess that's fine. Ms. Lalonde is a trans girl, you know." 

Ms. Lalonde was Bro's girlfriend. You'd only met her once, and she didn't seem to be too talkative. You didn't know she was trans, though, so that's cool. 

"So... do you want to go shopping or something?" 

Your jaw dropped. 

"Right now?" He wasn't going to punish you? This was too fast, too much, it was just... perfect. It was just perfect.

"Yeah, sure, why not? It's Saturday." You grinned. "Just let men finish this email. Go start the car." 

"What about school?" You asked when the two of you were on your way to the thrift store. Bro shrugged. 

"What about it? If they try any bullshit, I'll teach you myself." You stifled a laugh at the thought of him as a teacher. He'd suck.

When you were in the store (and admiring a sick as fuck baseball shirt), Bro turned to you.

"So, I take it you want to be addressed as 'he' or whatever now, right?" You thought for a second and nodded. That sounded nice. "Cool. And... what about your name?" Oh yeah. You hadn't really thought about that.

"Yeah, I guess I could use a different one, huh?" Not that it was really all that important to you, but 'Daphne' was, you know, a name that was associated with you being a girl. And, as you were sure of now, you were not. A girl, that is. 

But what could you be called? Dan? Adam? Chris? Dick? Okay, no way were you calling yourself Dick. You adjusted your shades, which you had proudly named Dave when you were three. You smiled at the thought, how naive you were. Dave was such a stupid name for a pair of sunglasses.

Three hours of shopping later, you were back home, and had succeeded in buying a pack of boxers and at least four outifits. Bro was on the phone. You were pretty sure it was Ms. Lalonde. You were half-listening to the conversation, half-thinking about what you were going to tell your class on Monday, and not paying any attention to the screen in front of you displaying your favorite TV show.

Dave.

As stupid as it was, the name lingered as a possibility. You almost laughed at yourself.

Dave.

Come to think of it, that name would be so ironically delicious. You would sound like the coolest thing since Godzilla.

Dave.

"His name is Dave," had a nice ring to it. And, actually, it kind of suited you. 

You smiled. Dave it was, then.


	2. Karkat's Backstory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> korat and
> 
> d-hh (this guy)
> 
> dont really stand next to each other

-Karkat Backstory-

Your name is Karkat Vantas. Fuck if you don't know it was a stupid name. You fucking know. 

You are currently thirteen years old, and homeschooled, which means you don't get a lot of social interaction. That's okay, though, you can't handle social situation, no thanks to the fuckton of mental illness you have. 

And you're a boy.

Ho boy, does that feel fucking great to say. You're a boy, and you're a valid boy, and you're 100% a boy.

You didn't really think you were valid when you first "discovered" you were trans last year. You thought that because of your curves and chest and thighs and feminine features that no amount of ace-bandage-binding could help you weren't valid. You thought that because you were a chubby latino and not a skinny pale white boy, you weren't valid. But mostly, you didn't think you were valid because you really enjoyed being pretty, and none of the other trans boys you knew online did. 

But now you know. You know you're a boy, regardless of your curves and skin color and love for makeup. It's who you are. 

Honestly? You don't want to come out. You haven't exactly figured out everything about your identity yet, and your story really isn't all that convincing- you basically just found a video a trans boy made about passing in public and just thought "well shit me too." 

Plus your older brother is a piece of shit and would probably out you to your dick of a father if you told him, so there's that, too. 

You really love dressing up in clothes from the men's section. There's something really satisfying about being able to wear clothes that fit your identity, not to mention that the sleeves on men's sweaters are floppy and actually go down your arms the whole way. 

Maybe that's why you're currently standing in front of the mirror with your brother's boxers on (which, fyi, are way too snug for your hips) and an ace bandage wrapped tightly around your unfortunately large bust. Because you really do enjoy passing as a male. It makes you feel more... significant? Like if you put on the right outfit and did the right makeup and pinned your hair up well enough it wouldn't just be you who knew you were a boy, everyone else would too. 

That doesn't excuse the pounding headache and chest pains you're having, though. It also doesn't help the fact that you're due for your period any day now, and if you stain your brother's underwear, he'd find out. So, unfortunately, you were going to have to take it all off before anyone else woke up. 

Well. at least, that's what you think before the doorknob clicks open. 

"Karkat? What are you doing up this early?"

A very sleep Kankri stood in the doorway, and you felt like your soul was going to fall right out of your body and onto the floor, causing a rip in the space-time continuum and sending you to your violent sci-fi-esque grave. 

Wait. He isn't wearing his glasses.

Oh FUCK yes. A God that you don't really believe in is currently on your side, and you're eternally grateful for that. You clear your throat.

"Uh, I wanted to take a shower." He rolls his eyes. 

"Absolutely fuck off, Karkat Vantas. You know I take a shower in the morning. Get out." You feel your chest tighten, but you figure he's just cranky.

"Yessir." As you slip past him, you use every cell in your body to pray that he doesn't notice his boxers. His nose crinkles a little and he raises an eyebrow. 

"Are you wearing a shirt?" You don't answer his question, you're already opening the door to your room down the hall. 

Twenty minutes pass and you don't make a single move to take off the underwear or bandage. In fact, you aren't moving at all. That's the wonderful thing about depersonalization disorder- disassociation. 

You're starting to emerge from your foggy state (the incident with Kankri really shook you the fuck up) around the time your alarm clock goes off.

6:30. Kankri should be getting out of the shower and coming to wake you up any minute. 

You don't react as much as you should, but somehow you know to move. 

"Ok, Karkat. Get dressed, cut your hair, eat breakfast- wait, fuck." You shake your head and try to get back on task. "Pressure. Just wear clothes with nice pressure today, and cut your hair." Don't do that, actually. "Yeah." No. 

Regardless of whatever I say, you decide to cut your hair. 

Maybe. You don't really know what you're doing, but you're very aware of it all.

This sucks. 

"Okay, get dressed." You are dressed, you're homeschooled. Just throw on some shorts and a t-shirt. 

Done.

"Alright, now shower." No, Kankri just showered so there's no hot water left, you've already got your clothes on, and you have to eat breakfast.  
   
You retreat to the bathroom to take a bath, partly out of spite, and partly because you really, really need to ground yourself. 

You take a short bath, probably only ten minutes, just soaking in the tub. 

Then you get out of the bathtub and reach for the scissors. 

Yeah, the scissors. But not for what you normally use the scissors for, you've talked to someone about that and haven't done it for a while.

You cut a chunk of your knotted and unruly hair off. It feels good, makes a nice noise and makes your head feel lighter. 

You put it all in an elastic band and chopped the whole thing off. You look nice, it shaped your face. 

The cut itself is really choppy and hangs awkwardly by your ears, but if you wore a hat of some sort, you think it would look nice.

And then there's the overwhelming panic that suddenly stabs you in the gut, spreading over your whole body.

"H-Holy shit." 

Hey, I won't say "I told you so" if you finish the story. 

You gulp and attempt to gather your discarded hair. You manage to get the majority of it into a pile that you pick up and flush down the toilet.

Yeah, not a good choice. It probably messed up your septic piping up big time. 

Oh, well. 

A little bit of time passes. You sit down on the floor and try not to cry. 

"Karkat! Breakfast!" Dammit. 

In one glorious moment of genius-ness you dash to your room at full speed and throw a hat on your head.

Because that's gonna fool him. 

Spoiler alert: it doesn't. 

Regardless of the news that I so kindly break to you, you carelessly walk out of your bedroom, either not noticing or just not acknowledging the look your brother gives you when you sit down next to him at the table.

"Karkat?" 

Your dad stares at you. You stare back.

Well shit. 

He drops the skillet he was holding with a deafening clatter, loud enough to wake up your neighbors. 

"Dear God, Karkat! What have you done?"

For some reason, you feel a lump in your throat form.

Oh my god, don't do it. 

You burst into tears.

Well, now you've done it!

Kankri wraps you in a hug. You shove him off. He can't help you! He doesn't even know why you're upset!

"What's wrong with her?"

You sob harder. Little do you know, an odd feeling grows in Kankri's chest.

He knows.

"Nothing's wrong, Dad. He- sorry, she just needs to talk." 

Your father squinted. 

"Karkat?" You start shaking.

"Y-yes?"

"What's going on?" Kankri bites his lip. 

"I don't know if now is the right time for him to talk." He cleared his throat. "R-right, I mean, sorry. Her. Obviously." 

"Why do you keep using male pronouns for her, Kankri?" He looks at you again. "Tell me what's going on right now, young lady." 

Kankri grips your shoulder. For comfort? 

"I'm a boy," you mumble. Your father blinks.

"What was that?" You don't say anything. "Speak up, Karkat. You know I hate it when you mumble."

"I'm a boy!" The scream rips from your throat. "God damn it! I'm transgender!" 

The room falls silent. Kankri lowered his head. Your father clenched his fist.

"I..." he closes his eyes and gently exhales. "I don't appreciate the yelling, Karkat. Not to mention the unnecessary cursing."

"I'm sorry."

"Good. You should be." He crouches down next to you and sighs. "I personally think you're to young to decide something like this. But, regardless of what my opinion is, I am your father. And I'll love and support you, no matter what."

Wow. That went.

Much better than expected?

"Really?" 

He smiles and nods at you.

From then on, you feel considerably more content with your body.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IM SO SORRY THIS TOOK SO LONG I AM A PROCRASTINATING MAN


	3. Rose's Backstory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rose does a Backstory, finally.
> 
> I have crippling depression:)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I FINALLY WROTE IT AHH SORRY

-Rose Backstory-

It's odd, you know. Being a nine year-old. You're oh-so curious about everything, because, oh wow, things actually exist, but you don't know anything about them.

What sucks is that you DO know about them. So you tend to focus on concepts that are harder for most to grasp.

Death, for instance. That's a Big One. The concept of it all. Is there an afterlife? Does time really go on after you die? Do you just rot underground forever?? 

Your mom says that only angst-ridden teenagers and 30 year-old mothers worry about that stuff. You don't believe her. Your teacher isn't 30 years old OR a mother and she seems to wonder about death a lot.

"Rose, they want you in the guidance office now, sweetie." 

Right.

Thinking about death all the time as a young child can sometimes get you into situations you don't want to be a part of.

For instance, expressing your interest in life's end on the recess playground can sometimes result in an unwanted visit to the school guidance counselor.

You swat at a mosquito buzzing by and follow the lady into a room filled with cheesy posters and silly putty. You blink at a poster of a cat hanging from a tree. The words "HANG IN THERE!" scream at you. It makes you uncomfortable. Whoever took the photo should have gotten the kitten out of the tree instead. 

"Rose, honey, can we talk about the things you said on the playground?" You grimace.

"I don't want to." The guidance counselor's smile falters a little bit.

"Sweetheart, what you were talking about today isn't a light subject." She has stale pepsi breath. Your nose wrinkles. "Has anyone you know passed away lately?" 

"No." 

"Then what brought up this subject?" You shrug. She sighs and takes off her glasses. "Rose, is there something going on at home?" 

No. Nothing happens at your home, ever. It's super boring, and your mom barely ever talks to you now that she's dating her stupid boyfriend. 

"Not really." She nods and leans back in her chair.

"Okay. Well, if you ever need me, I'll be in my office." She stands up to lead you back to class. "And try not to talk about that stuff anymore, 'kay, darling?" 

______________________________

You really do try. It's not like you don't try to listen to what the guidance lady said. You really do. It's just hard sometimes. 

After all, kids your age find everything to be curious.

Now that you've opened their eyes up to this new curiosity, it's like you broke down a dam. Questions are constantly flooding in your direction.

"Have you ever known someone who died?"

"What happens to your body after you die?"

"Do you think you're gonna go to heaven, Rose?"

"My mama said that people like Rose are going to hell."

"My uncle died a little while back. Do you know what happened to him?"

You cover your ears and scream at them when they crowd around you. They get scared and run away. Then recess rolls around the next day, and the cycle repeats.

Your mom gets a lot of calls from the guidance counselor that year.

______________________________

It happens over the summer. Your mother doesn't bother to try and explain it to you, she figures you know enough about it.

But you don't!

It doesn't make any sense!

Why would you have to dress in all black? Why are you going to the synagogue? It's not a Friday or a Saturday, it's a Monday. 

It's raining. You point it out to your mother cheerfully- there's been a dry spell lately. She shakes her head silently. 

You're not sure if the water on her face is rain or tears. Either way, it's smudging her makeup. 

You point that out, too. She shushes you. 

It's weird, seeing your cousin like that. He's all pale and stiff, and his eyes are dark.

Your aunt is crying. You've never seen her cry before. It's ugly and it sounds like she's choking. You cover your ears and try not to scream. 

______________________________

You don't want to go to the synagogue anymore. It makes you think of your cousin, and all the adults crying, and how you had to recite a bunch of psalms, and the way you felt like screaming the whole time because "why are we doing this, why is he dead, what happened?" 

Your mother keeps going. She leaves you home with some girl with a bunch of piercings. Calls her "a babysitter." You think it's stupid. You don't need a babysitter.

Her name is Porrim. You know who she is, her little brother goes to your school. He's a grade above you. 

Porrim lets you drink coffee and watch scary movies. You appreciate it, but you're not very interested in either.

Sometimes you play dress up. She makes you look like the girl from Beetlejuice, the one who could see ghosts and stuff. She says you look funny. You tell her you think so too, but you secretly like it.

______________________________

It's pretty easy to break down in your situation. You skipped the first grade, your mother's single and drinking again, and no one wants to hang out with you.

You start acting funny. 

You cut your hair off. Your mom says it makes you look gross and yells at you. You don't even cry.

Your cat passes away. You dressed him up in a tie and throw a funeral. Your mother cries harder than you do. You just get a funny feeling in your chest that doesn't go away.

You don't think you like death, concept or not. Not anymore.


	4. Kanaya's Backstory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You know what I think?" Porrim asks. You shake your head. "I think they're looking down on us from heaven now, and Mama's smiling from ear to ear, because she was right. She had her little Kanaya."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi! this took me 8 years to write 

Kanaya's Backstory 

Your name is Kenneth.   
It's your eighth birthday.  
Everyone is at your party.

Well, all the boys, at least. The only girl who showed up was Vriska, who ruins everything. She only came because her mommy and your mommy go out with each other sometimes, and kiss and stuff. You have to hang out with Vriska a lot. 

"Dolly, sweetheart. Should he open the gifts now?" Vriska's mom cooed. You didn't say anything. Your mom looked at you.

"Honey? You wanna open your gifts?" You nod. She smiles and kisses your forehead. "Go on, I'll get everyone to sit at the table." 

The first gift is from a boy named Daniel. It's just a card with a muddy truck on it. 

"Dear Kenneth,

Happy birthday! I hope you like cars! Most boys do, haha! :)

-Daniel"

You thank him, even though you don't really like it.

You try not to wince when he slaps you on the back and shoots you a grin. You notice his two front teeth are missing. It makes him look like he got into a fight.

The next present is from your grandmother. It's just a small stuffed animal with a note that says "Happy birthday. Love, Gram." on it. 

It's not much, but you appreciate it. You haven't seen your grandmother since she got arrested two years for "vandalizing property." Your parents swear up and down that she was falsely accused, but that wasn't enough for the court. 

"Hey, who's this from?" Your mother asks, holding up a large package. There's no card to go with it. Vriska snatches it out of her hands, grinning wickedly. 

"Don't worry, Kenneth! I'LL open it for you!" She sprays spit everywhere when she talks. 

You hear someone scream from outside the party room. Your mother's face twists awkwardly. You feel your stomach drop.

"What was that?" Vriska's mom whispered. Your mom's brow furrows. 

"I don't know." 

Vriska finishes opening the package. It's an empty cardboard box. She pouts.

"Awh, that's no fun!" She rolls her eyes. "It's a stupid prank, too." 

You see a note flutter to the ground. You stare at it, trying to figure out what it says. Whoever wrote it has really messy handwriting. 

"Oh my god. Oh my god, Dolly?!" Vriska's mom's eyes are wide. She points to the window. 

A man with a gun is standing less than five yards away. Your mom is shaking. A few of the kids start crying. You just stare. 

You barely process the next few minutes. You know that the grownups start screaming at you to run, and you stay frozen, and then Vriska's mom is pushing you out a door and when did you get there and there's a gunshot and it smells so bad that you want to throw up and there's more gunshots and oh my god is that your mom?

Vriska looks away while you get sick on the ground. Her mom drives everyone home, except for you.

You spend the night at Vriska's with your older sister Porrim. She cries a lot. You don't.

Vriska says that she's gonna be your sister from now on. Her mommy says that they can't afford it. 

You move to a shelter.

You stop going to school for a while, stop everything. Porrim still cries a lot. You just sleep a lot.

A couple of months pass. You live in a small apartment with Porrim and her friend. You start going to school again.

You can't remember what your mom's face looks like anymore. When you tell Porrim, she throws up in the bathroom. Vriska stays at your house and Porrim talks to her mom all night.

You get a gift from Vriska for your birthday. She tells you to open it as soon as you get the chance. It's the only gift you got for you birthday, besides the little card from your grandma and some quilt from Porrim.

You don't open it.

The kids at school don't talk to you. When they do, they get this scrunched up sad look on their face. The teachers say that they feel sorry for you. You don't know why.

Vriska's the only exception. As much as she annoys you, you two have gotten very close. "Like brother and sister," she says. You wrinkle your nose and tell her to "just say siblings, it's shorter." She laughs.

And then there's the inevitable end of Vriska, of course.

Your life had finally kind of smoothed over by the sixth grade. Porrim was working all the time, but it was okay because that meant you got to go over to Vriska's house a lot. 

She had stopped hanging out with you as much, but you still considered her your only friend. And that was okay with you. As long as she didn't leave or something.

But then she did leave, and the evidence was laid out on a table at the police station, cold and ugly. 

You don't think you'll ever know why she did it. She seemed happy enough with life, if a little angsty and irritable at times. 

She didn't even write a note.

You guess it could have been an accident. Who knows, maybe she just wanted to get high. You've come to the conclusion that you really don't (didn't?) know Vriska. She could have done drugs and just gotten unlucky this last time. You hope it was painless, but the doctors say it probably wasn't.

You'll never know, though.

The funeral service is simple enough. You cry a little bit, which is more than you did for your mom. It makes you want to hurt something.

You finally open up the package.

And that's when you really cry.

It's not much, just a crappy sketchbook that cost maybe four dollars and some fabric that's barely enough to make a skirt out of.

But it means everything to you.

There's a note, too. A little happy birthday card. But you don't open it. It's too much for you to deal with.

You start designing clothes. You hope that was Vriska's intent. 

Even if it wasn't, it was very relaxing. You had nimble fingers that were good for sewing, and while you may not have been the best at drawing, even Porrim said that your ideas were "very creative."

You don't have a model, of course, and hell if you were going to ask Porrim to get measured and work with you.

So, you use yourself.

And there's just something about looking stereotypically "feminine" that makes you feel safer. More at home.

More like your mother.

You notice some things that make you happy. 

You've got a soft jawline, but that'll go away once you really hit puberty. It helped that you were a late bloomer, gave you more time to learn makeup tricks.

You've always kept your hair sort of long. It came down to your shoulders, all fluffy and a bit unkempt. You tied it up to work on your designs, but you preferred the way it looked when it was down, pretty and bouncy.

You had a pear-shaped body. Not enough to pass as curves, but you liked the way it kind of gave you hips and thighs.

And, sure, it would be fine to be a male and like these things! Plenty of guys are feminine. 

But you're more than that.

Porrim thinks you're gay. But you've only ever liked girls, so that's definitely not true. 

You're a girl.

Not a feminine boy, or a gay guy, or a drag queen. You're a girl.

It's not long after you realize you're a girl that you become extremely self aware and more comfortable in your body.

You've read stories about transgender people in the past, and you know trans people are seen as "social deviants," But you don't see why. it's just... you.

However, because of these stories you've read, you've learned a couple tips and tricks. 

Don't use socks to stuff, they're too lumpy, but don't use tissue paper either, because it's too obvious. 

Contouring can be hard at first, but once you get the hang of it, it makes your face appear to be rounder and softer, which is apparently more "feminine." (For the record, you didn't actually know this was true, but once you try it, it makes you grin from ear-to-ear)

Voice training is a tricky thing. If you want to do it, it's best that you get a professional to help you.

There was one thing that, to you, seemed to be the hardest.

Coming out.

Everything you've read said you need to wait until you feel safe. You don't have to come out unless you want to.

You feel safe. You want to. You know Porrim doesn't have anything against trans people- er, at least, you're pretty sure. 

However, you never really get the chance to "properly" come out.

"Hey, Kenny? Have you seen my bra? My friend wants to borrow it, and I can't-" She suddenly opens your door, and you almost scream.

As you well know, one moment is all that it takes to completely change your life. That moment is almost always extremely unpleasant, with no explanation as to why it had to happen.

You and the moment were similar in that way, because how on earth were you going to explain to your older sister why you were dressed like a girl?

You knew why. Because it made you comfortable, because you looked pretty, because you were a girl.

However, when you opened your mouth to start saying any of this to her, it wasn't words that fell out, but a single, strained sob.

"...Kenny?"

And suddenly you're being wrapped in strong arms. Porrim smooths your hair down and quietly shushes you while you soak her shirt. 

When you've calmed down a little bit, you pull away and wipe at your face. Your mascara was probably running. You didn't want to look in the mirror to confirm this statement.

"I'm transgender," you choke out. "I'm a girl." Porrim raises her eyebrows in surprise.

"Oh," she breathes. "I, um. Oh." 

Your stomach falls. Was this the right way to tell her? The lump in your throat that had been fading away reforms all over again.

"I love you," you whisper, studying your sister's face to see if anything would break the confused twist it seemed to be frozen in.

It works.

Her eyes go wide, expression softening. "Oh, no, Kenny, I love you too. Come here." She wraps you in another tight hug and kisses your forehead. "You're a very pretty girl, darling. Mama would be proud of you for telling me." 

That night at dinner (peanut butter toast and milk), after Porrim cancels whatever plans she had with her friends, you two sit on the couch, watching some Disney movie. You honestly don't like little kid's movies as much (you were almost 12, after all), but you don't have the heart to tell Porrim, who seems to be enjoying watching Princess Tiana dance across the screen more than any toddler you've ever known. 

"You know," she starts to say, turning to you. "Before you were born, Mama wanted to name you 'Kanaya.' It was the name of the friend who introduced her and Daddy." She stretches her legs out, leaning back over your lap. "Kanaya died of cancer the same year she found out she was pregnant, and she was convinced that she was gonna have a little girl named Kanaya in memory of her friend. When you popped out, and the doctors said you were a boy, she cried for a full two hours." She bites her lip. "At least, that was the story Daddy told." 

You two sat in silence for a little bit. Your father died in a car crash when you before you turned one, so you don't remember him at all. 

"You know what I think?" Porrim asks. You shake your head. "I think they're looking down on us from heaven now, and Mama's smiling from ear to ear, because she was right. She had her little Kanaya."


End file.
